you are my friend now, Betita.
’Cause we’re cranes.
Promise never to say a word
to another living soul? ¿Ninguna?
I promise. Changuitos que sí.
I cross two fingers in a swear above her.
She wiggles to the side to whisper near my ear,
We were taken to a place that looked
like a hospital but wasn’t with lots of other kids.
Babies too. There was not one of us
who didn’t cry and cry for our parents at first.
I tried to keep at least Jakie with me because
she was a girl but they wouldn’t let me.
She went with the babies. I stayed with the older girls.
Carlos with the boys. They screamed at us
to do this and that, rules, like here. They gave us shots.
Right on the arm! Lots of them, though we’d already
got them in El Salvador. They made my arm swell up
like a balloon and gave me a fever. But that wasn’t the worst.
Did they hit you?
Not me but sometimes they hit the kids
who tried to run out the doors or cried too loudly.
They would scream, “Shut up, shut up!”
But that wasn’t the worst.
Really?
Then, Yanela pauses for such a long
time I think she’s fallen asleep.
There was a man who cooked our food
who would lock me in the closet with him.
He did things.
He told me it was supposed to feel good
but it didn’t. It hurt me so so bad, I threw up.
In the closet?
Uh-huh. All over him. Then he stopped.
So I started making myself sick
each time he trapped me.
Did you tell the people there?
He said if I told anyone, he would make it
so that I never saw my mama again.
So I didn’t tell the grown-ups
but I told all of the kids to run
when he came near them.
Pobrecita,
I begin to say, but the sadness I feel
for her gets all tangled inside my
voice box with the biggest tears.
I’m so o soorry Yan ela.
Shshsh, Betita, you said you wouldn’t say anything.
She covers my mouth with her hand.
I pull it away and give it a little squeeze
and nod and let the tears roll down
for Yanela but also to imagine
what would happen if I was
ever taken away from Mami.
That night
there are more coughs
than normal
more cries
more sighs
our fear
a bear
roaring in the dark.
I wake to someone talking loudly.
When I look over, I see it is Marisel
and I cover my face with my hand.
I mean, why don’t they turn up
the heat in here? Because it is a form
of torture, that’s why. Just like my
beat-down, that’s a kind of torture too.
And taking away niños from their
parents in here, dang, that’s the worst
kind of torture. It’s straight jacked up.
You see, they don’t want this to be cool
like we are at summer camp or something.
They want it to be as cruel as possible
so that we want to leave the country.
She’s speaking in a singsong way
moves her hands and arms
like she’s a rapper, and she’s
talking to a teen and her sister
who got here a few days ago.
Pero, what they don’t want to admit
is that our people have been here
since before there were borders.
We are indigenous to this land
and they, THEY are the illegal immigrants
who came to this continent without
an invitation and colonized.
And here we are, having to wait
in this freezing freaking cage
having to put up with all of their mistreatment
just so that we can get permission
to live in this damn country.
The whole cell is awake now
listening to her say things
I didn’t know.
When the teen asks her where she
is from, her talking gets faster.
Technically, Mexico but in reality
I spent most of my life in Southeast LA
and so have my parents and all of my friends.
But like I said, these are the Americas
and I’m indigenous to this place, just like you.
Something about how she is saying
what she is saying pulls me and Yanela over
and we sit to listen to Marisel keep
spinning her words into our ears.
sorts of things to get DACA, you know,
Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals
which was supposed to protect me
but that didn’t stop them from putting
me in here. I was at a rally at the border
and made a speech about the abuse
of the immigrant community by ICE.
I locked arms with people
to build a bridge between
Mexico and here, but because
I happened to stand on the Mexican
side of the border they said
I violated my DACA by crossing
and threw me in here.
They’re trying to deport me now.
I did nothing but speak out. Dang, if I had
my phone, I’d be posting about this right
now to my 10K followers. It would go viral.
I am trying to understand Marisel.
Her loud singsong raps despite her two growing
black eyes and swollen lip, how is it that
she has more followers than Tina, the things
she knows about our history
that is sort of like Papi but angrier
and she’s teaching us like Mami but wilder.
I’ve never met a crane like her before.
The next day doesn’t come fast enough.
Fernanda should be here soon.
The hours lean against
a long breath of waiting.
We are as eager to see Fernanda
as we are for a drink of pure water
unchlorinated water
not from the shower or toilet tank.
We learn from Marisel
that Fernanda is also hers!
Mami says it is the best
kind of coincidence.
She asks Mami to please
tell Fernanda she is here too
because we figure she doesn’t know.
I don’t mind helping Marisel
anymore because she reminds me
of a music star, thick with fire.
Everything really is “jacked up” in here.
I sway and bop my head
to every one of Marisel’s words
sprouting truths
so true I can feel
my wings regrowing
in real time.
When Fernanda finally comes
Yellow Hair calls Mami
from the gate three times
in a voice that sounds
like screeching tires,
&nb
sp; Gabriela Quintero,
Gabriela Quintero,
Gabriela Quintero.
We scramble to the gate.
Mami holds my hand firmly
as we begin to move, but
Yellow Hair stops me
with her baton.
Not the kid. I didn’t call her.
But we are seeing the same attorney.
I don’t care.
If you don’t let me bring her
I will tell my attorney once I see her
and you’ll have to let her through anyway.
With a sideways grimace, Yellow Hair lifts
her icy baton and
lets me
pass.
When we come into
the room where Fernanda
is waiting, she has no crowbar.
There is only a small table
between us and a small stack
of papers and folders.
She wears a bubbly smile that makes
me so happy at first but makes Mami
burst into tears, which then makes me
dig my face into Mami’s side and cry too.
Fernanda doesn’t say anything but
puts her hand on my hand
makes a curvy so sorry look.
I feel like she understands.
After she has given us a moment
to come back to ourselves
she begins to explain
and I try hard to follow.
Entry into the United States without permission
is a misdemeanor. The lowest kind of infraction
in the US. The government in power has created
stricter laws now and is punishing these misdemeanors
with indefinite detention until the cases are resolved.
But, another way to get out is to post a bail bond
of twenty thousand dollars.
Mami’s eyes grow wide, fill back up
with tears, which she wipes away
with the back of her hand.
Sí, I understand.
But we don’t have twenty thousand?
I say, trying not to be whiny.
I know, Betita. Most migrants seeking asylum don’t.
The only good news is I have a court date for you
in a month, before the baby is born.
I asked to expedite it due to special circumstances.
We don’t want the baby to be born inside detention.
They don’t have the necessary personnel
or the right facility for it to be safe.
I hadn’t thought of that
and I feel like an hija mala suddenly.
I’d been thinking about Tía Raquel
Mami and me getting out
about seeing Papi again
about flying.
I never thought what would happen
to Mami if the egg hatches in here.
Now I’m thinking
what would happen to me
if it does hatch?
Have you talked to Beto? Mami asks suddenly.
Yes, he wants to speak to you
but the facility only allows calls from attorneys.
He said he loves you very much and
seeking asylum is the right thing
to do, to please hold on.
A warm sweet heat fills
my head.
I miss Papi so much.
Betita, I brought you a notebook and crayons.
Your mom did such a good job collecting
all of those documents for me, but
we need to collect some from you.
I saw your gallery of drawings hanging
in the kitchen when I visited your house.
I think you’d be able to tell us a little about
what has happened to you, to show the judge.
She hands the guard standing next to her
the crayons and notebook, and he takes them
to inspection off to the side.
But I made those for Papi.
Not for a judge.
I can mail them to him in Mexico
once we get a copy.
Fernanda. What day is it?
It’s March fifth. Why do you ask, Betita?
My picture poems need to know.
Then Mami whispers hard,
It is a nightmare in here, Fernanda.
They treat us worse than animals.
We are sleeping on a concrete floor
twenty or thirty of us to a cage
it is so cold the children are sick
their lips and hands are blue
they have lice and rashes
some hardly want to talk
some children don’t even want to play.
They beat a girl here yesterday
who says she is your client too.
Marisel Doming —
Marisel Dominguez? The Dreamer?
Yes, she was arrested a couple of days ago
and brought here. She asked us to tell you
she is here.
Is she okay?
She’s got two black eyes
and her lip is swollen a bit
but she is still pretty feisty.
Thank you. I will request to see her next.
Marisel is one of our most important leaders.
I knew there was something about her.
I just knew it.
Before we leave Fernanda
she tells us she will bring up
the conditions with her colleagues.
Hopefully they’ll find a way to sue them
since this is a private prison
not the government’s and our complaints
aren’t the only ones
but until then, she is sorry.
This is
all
she can do.
After seeing Fernanda
Marisel is hush quiet.
She isn’t pointing out how
jacked up everything is
or trying to inhale
everyone’s arrival story.
She is looking at us
with extinguished eyes
I’ve seen before
in Mami.
She must be understanding
for the first time
how badly her wings
have been cut.
I curl my hands around
my very own crayons
take a deep breath of their
salty sweet smell
feel a pulsing tingle
to hold my brand-new
two-hundred-page spiral notebook
and fill it with
my very own words.
Though it might be weird
I can’t wait to spell again.
Yes, spell out my favorites
that tumble and rumble
sulk and hulk
twirl and swirl
inside my head.
But then, Carlos is lurking.
I can feel he wants to take them.
I squint my eyes at him
while I sit on my supplies
I will NOT be sharing.
The next day Marisel
awakes spitting out ways
she is going to get
out of here.
Marisel gave
Fernanda permission
to post for her
on social media.
She is going to get
Marisel’s girlfriend,
Erika, involved too.
Marisel says Erika
has 12K followers on
her Gram page alone.
They are starting
a hashtag campaign
to bring attention
to how they are
caging cranes.
I jump in,
My cousin Tina has a thousand followers too!
But Marisel shrugs her shoulders
and keeps talking.
She tosses out some
ideas for us to hear,
#FreeMarisel
#IAmADreamerDetained
#MigrantsHoldUpTheWorld
#AsylumIsLegal
#StopMigrantDetention
#NoHumanIsIllegal
I offer up
#FreeTheCranes
but Marisel twists
her eyebrows at me
and swats at the air
in front of her with
her hand, erasing my hashtag.
We need to start
a revolution for us, Betita,
not for some birds!
I guess only
Mami and Yanela
really believe.
Too many days have passed to keep count.
A raspy wet cough sits in my lungs
and barks itself up each time
I try to talk.
Mami lies down more now
when she isn’t singing
and teaching us.
She is having trouble
keeping any food down
when she does eat.
Sometimes I pick out
the best part of my food
to see if the better parts will help her
keep something in her belly
but nothing helps.
I’m having trouble remembering the sound of Beto’s voice,
she says. Maybe it is my nervios.
I feel a tearing inside.
No, Mami, he’s here. Right here.
I pull out my papi square
put it to her nose
but now it only smells like
me.
I sit near
my resting mami
and keep scribbling onto paper
how much my heart hurts.
I’ve given my notebook a name.
Tagged it right on the
cover—“Alas.”
I flip through Alas to see what I’ve done:
I drew a picture of Papi as a flying crane.
You are the sound of
crane trumpets that
sing their love into the sky.
Betita-March 5
I drew what the monster looks like from the outside.
We’ve been swallowed
by a monster
so cold it turns
our hopes frozen.
Betita-March 7
I drew a maze of cages and crying cranes.
Across from us there is another cage
with more cranes and their kids
and almost solitas kept from flying.
Betita-March 8
I drew a picture of Papi in his construction hat with tears on his cheeks.
I know you miss us, Papi, like we miss you.